unloading cargoes of wooden crates and oversized tins and drums; porters pushing their precious loads of baggage to awaiting carriages and motor cars; passengers debarking into the arms of long-lost family. A babble of voices in diverselanguages, a cacophony of whining engines and creaking steel—I could have been standing in Southampton or in Naples or in Marseilles—any great port city; but, in fact, I was in New York, and somehow I knew it felt different from being in those other places. There was an invigorating mixture of traffic, electricity, and excitement all presided over by those modern-day Babels of progress, architectural wonders that I could recognise myself from magazine illustrations I had seen in England: the sparkling Metropolitan Tower, the tallest building on earth (having just recently outclimbed the rival Singer), and the as-yet unfinished Woolworth, in the process of claiming the title for itself. Awed, bewildered, exhilarated—where else could I have been but in New York City, gateway to the New World?
Suddenly my eyes refocused. From the skyscrapers in the distance I turned my gaze to the throng before me and a hand-lettered sign about the size of a standard piece of writing paper. On it appeared my name. It was held by a well-dressed man in dark overcoat with astrakhan collar and cuffs and a black trilby. A few wrinkles suggested he must have been middle-aged, but his trim physique and rugged good looks belied his years. He was tall, had a sharp, angular jaw, and was sporting one of those high collars that Phillips himself had fancied so much. Indeed, he could have passed for the writer’s brother.
“Dr. Watson?” he asked when I reached him. “Dr. John Watson?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m John Watson. But I’m afraid—”
“I’m Albert Beveridge, Doctor. Senator Albert Beveridge. Former senator, to be more accurate. But you can call me ‘Bev.’ I was Graham’s closest friend, and Carolyn—that is, Mrs. Frevert—askedme to meet the Majesty personally and see that your were properly welcomed to New York. I travelled all the way from Indiana for the occasion. Mrs. Frevert decided to remain at home to oversee tonight’s dinner. You are coming, of course. After all, I reckon you’re the guest of honour.”
Holmes, I knew, had sent a telegram to Mrs. Frevert with details of our change in plans and his decision to remain awhile longer in England, but that was no reason for the lady herself to be absent. Was I to interpret her failure to meet me as a lack of faith in Holmes’s representative? And who was this former Senator Beveridge to take her place?
“I hope your trip was okay, Doctor,” Beveridge went on. “I have a car waiting just down the walkway.” Turning abruptly, he located a Negro porter in blue velveteen and issued him instructions. Despite the latter’s greying hair and stooped shoulders, the man tipped his cap and proceeded to secure my baggage on a small wagon.
Followed by the porter who was steering my trunk, we elbowed our way through the crowds until we reached a great yellow motor car with a short, sombre young man in grey livery standing before it.
“This is my driver, Rollins,” Beveridge said, “and this little machine,” he added with obvious pride, “is a 1910 Packard ‘Thirty.’“
Rollins nodded slightly, but his deep-set dark eyes and square jaw prevented any warmth from emanating. The great yellow motor car did not appeal to me. I make no apologies even now, many years after the advent of the automobile, of my preference for the horse and carriage. Perhaps less self-sufficient and more limited in range than contemporary self-propelled public transport, a hansom cab under the reins of the right driver couldsurpass any of today’s horseless wonders. Besides, the drumbeat of hooves echoing down Baker Street on a dark, foggy night is for me the essence of London in the ‘90s, the scene of so many adventures I shared with Sherlock Holmes.
Suddenly my eyes refocused. From the skyscrapers in the distance I turned my gaze to the throng before me and a hand-lettered sign about the size of a standard piece of writing paper. On it appeared my name. It was held by a well-dressed man in dark overcoat with astrakhan collar and cuffs and a black trilby. A few wrinkles suggested he must have been middle-aged, but his trim physique and rugged good looks belied his years. He was tall, had a sharp, angular jaw, and was sporting one of those high collars that Phillips himself had fancied so much. Indeed, he could have passed for the writer’s brother.
“Dr. Watson?” he asked when I reached him. “Dr. John Watson?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m John Watson. But I’m afraid—”
“I’m Albert Beveridge, Doctor. Senator Albert Beveridge. Former senator, to be more accurate. But you can call me ‘Bev.’ I was Graham’s closest friend, and Carolyn—that is, Mrs. Frevert—askedme to meet the Majesty personally and see that your were properly welcomed to New York. I travelled all the way from Indiana for the occasion. Mrs. Frevert decided to remain at home to oversee tonight’s dinner. You are coming, of course. After all, I reckon you’re the guest of honour.”
Holmes, I knew, had sent a telegram to Mrs. Frevert with details of our change in plans and his decision to remain awhile longer in England, but that was no reason for the lady herself to be absent. Was I to interpret her failure to meet me as a lack of faith in Holmes’s representative? And who was this former Senator Beveridge to take her place?
“I hope your trip was okay, Doctor,” Beveridge went on. “I have a car waiting just down the walkway.” Turning abruptly, he located a Negro porter in blue velveteen and issued him instructions. Despite the latter’s greying hair and stooped shoulders, the man tipped his cap and proceeded to secure my baggage on a small wagon.
Followed by the porter who was steering my trunk, we elbowed our way through the crowds until we reached a great yellow motor car with a short, sombre young man in grey livery standing before it.
“This is my driver, Rollins,” Beveridge said, “and this little machine,” he added with obvious pride, “is a 1910 Packard ‘Thirty.’“
Rollins nodded slightly, but his deep-set dark eyes and square jaw prevented any warmth from emanating. The great yellow motor car did not appeal to me. I make no apologies even now, many years after the advent of the automobile, of my preference for the horse and carriage. Perhaps less self-sufficient and more limited in range than contemporary self-propelled public transport, a hansom cab under the reins of the right driver couldsurpass any of today’s horseless wonders. Besides, the drumbeat of hooves echoing down Baker Street on a dark, foggy night is for me the essence of London in the ‘90s, the scene of so many adventures I shared with Sherlock Holmes.
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